


This Side of Paradise

by valantha



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 12:12:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2772569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valantha/pseuds/valantha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil and Bobbi encounter an unusual gas that triggers an aphrodisiacal syndrome. May breaks quarantine to give Phil some <i>assistance</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Side of Paradise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xyber116](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=xyber116).



> My amazing beta and good friend xyber116 asked for a Philinda sex pollen fic for Christmas, so here it is.
> 
> And yes, the title is from (arguably) the first sex pollen story, the Star Trek: The Original Series episode.

May and Hunter waited anxiously in the Bus’s cargo bay; she had tuned out Hunter’s nervous babbling some 20 minutes prior.

Simmons was unsure of the possible contagiousness of this unusual aphrodisiacal syndrome, so May had cleared everyone else out of the Bus. But someone needed to check on Phil and Bobbi’s condition, and possibly provide some _assistance_.

Phil and Bobbi stumbled up the cargo ramp – her arm wrapped over his shoulder, her long body leaning upon his stalwart one for support – and Hunter bolted down the ramp to assist his former wife.

May paid no attention to Bobbi and Hunter’s habitual struggle for dominance as he led her to the hex room.

Her eyes were on Phil.

Phil was, in a word, disheveled. His subtle blue-and-silver striped tie was loosened and hanging akimbo. His white Oxford was half unbuttoned and his jacket was who-knows-where. More telling, his pants were unzipped to ease the strain and his typically bright blue eyes were black with arousal. She’d never seen him look so salacious. Even on assignment, even when he tried.

Phil attempted to straighten himself out a bit as he stumbled up the last few feet of ramp-way. May stood still, knowing he wouldn’t accept or appreciate any assistance at the moment.

“Where to?” Phil asked tightly, attempting to remain in control.

“Fitzsimmons rigged a temporary quarantine field around your old office/bedroom,” May replied levelly.

Phil nodded and gingerly walked/waddled up the spiral staircase. May followed behind, unable to completely mask the concern on her visage.

By the time they reached Coulson’s old office, Phil was sweating profusely and rolling his shoulders something fierce.

Coulson fumbled with the doorknob a few times before May threw it open for him.

He stumbled into his old office/bedroom in relief.

Someone – Jemma most likely – had pulled down and tidied Coulson’s old Murphy bed, and had placed Tripp’s donated and sterilized Fleshlight – with a generous supply of lube – on top of the Captain America duvet.

Coulson spared May a pained glance as she shut the door and activated the quarantine field.

“Good luck Phil,” she whispered.

* * *

A few hours later, Simmons interrupted her sorely needed meditations.

“Agent May?” Simmons implored.

“Agent Simmons?” May asked, unvoiced was the amendment ‘this better be good.’

“Director Coulson’s vitals aren’t returning to normal. Agent Morse’s body temperature returned to normal hours ago and while her heart rate is still elevated; it’s nowhere near as dangerous as it had been. Coulson’s temperature is still rising and his heart rate is unsustainable for a man his age.”

May spared the young Doctor a moment to bestow her stink-eye upon the puppy-ish scientist, and then she hurried to the stairs.

“But Agent May, the quarantine?”

She paid the protest no mind.

In the space of three even breaths she was up on the landing outside Phil’s office rigging a 30 second break in the quarantine field.

She ducked into Phil’s room, shutting the physical door behind her as well.

Phil looked up. He was sprawled out on top of his duvet, halfheartedly jacking off, completely nude, his death-scar an angry knot. The fleshlight and his clothes lay discarded on the floor. No wonder the aphrodisiacal syndrome hadn’t worked itself out.

“May,” he forced out through clenched teeth, “You shouldn’t be here.”

Melinda began peeling herself out of her flight suit; Phil was too far-gone to have managed such a dexterous task. Her boots hit the floor with a dull thud, followed quickly by her vest and shirt.

“You don’t need to do this,” he tried once more.

As with her exit strategy and the remote Australian shack, Phil seemed to be willfully ignoring May’s true motivations.

May stripped down to her plain and supportive underwear, but by his rapt attention, Phil didn’t seem to mind the lack of frippery.

And yet he held himself back, even pausing his spiritless masturbation. His familiar, well-proportioned dick rested on his stomach, but it lurched gratifyingly as she stepped out of her panties. Familiar, but she knew it less than half as well as she’d like to; Melinda knew his cock from hurried shared showers on various missions and whatnot over the years, but not intimately.

“Oh Phil, you noble dork, will you let me help you?”

Wordlessly he crumbled, reaching for her, need painted clearly on his face.

Without wasting a second, Melinda stepped over his trousers, clambered onto the bed, straddled him and smoothly impaled herself on Phil’s much-abused member. She’d been annoyingly wet for hours.

Phil was cleaner than her mother’s formal dinnerware and, baring her ill-conceived relationship with Ward, she too was careful.

Phil’s breath hitched and she knew he was mere moments from babbling and questioning everything under the sun. Mystical uncontrollable lust could only limit Coulson’s tenancy to talk through every problem instead of just solving it so much.

Melinda took a moment to adjust to the fullness and balance properly on her knees before building up to a steady rhythm.

Phil moaned wantonly.

It only took a few thrusts for Phil to begin exploring. He started gentle: running his fingers over her stomach and lower back – teasing, tender butterfly kisses. His hands had even stopped shaking. For someone riding a possibly lethal wave of an unclassified aphrodisiacal syndrome he was amazingly self-possessed.

Melinda turned away from the look of earnest awe in his eyes, picking up the pace to distract them both.

And yet in her mind’s eye she could still see that look. They were screwed.

She moved his hands away from a scar from a 0.22 in Cameroon. He took that as permission to work his hands upward. Melinda rocked forward to let him unsnap her bra and rather enjoyed the sensation; in addition to the predictable increase in friction, the angle also worked well with the curvature of Phil’s dick, hitting just the right spot.

He eventually popped the snap and Melinda shrugged out of her supportive yet confining bra.

His hands replaced her bra, tenderly cupping her breasts. He flicked one peaked nipple, eliciting an unforeseen moan from Melinda. Briefly, her rhythm fell apart.

“Mel, Melinda!” he panted, and god wasn’t that one of the sweetest sounds Melinda had ever heard.

Sex was sex and Phil was Phil, but damn was she screwed. She needed to wrap this up _fast_ before her emotions got even more tangled. With the next stroke, she rocked forward again, setting off a crescendo of sensations, pulling Phil up and over with her.

Bonelessly she collapsed onto Phil’s chest. The roughness of his death-scar and the soothing thrum of his heart lay directly beneath her cheek. Her nose was full of the familiar yet refined smell of Phil’s oniony sweat.

His breathing was a bit labored, but his heart rate was no longer scary-fast. _Good_ , she thought with a bit of pride.

After a bit of an indulgent rest she hitched her knees up, letting Phil’s flaccid dick slip out before settling herself in the lee of his arms.

She knew she’d regret this moment of weakness – this moment of surrender – later, but she didn’t have the energy right now to face the yapping of the Kids. _And_ she couldn’t break quarantine again, right?

Phil began stroking her hair out of her face and she focused on his death-scar. She knew if she met his eyes – brimming with post-coital bliss – she’d be utterly done for.

“Mel?”

“Hmmm?”

“Why did you come?”

“You needed me,” was her honest but incomplete answer.


End file.
